The Mothers' Group (10 page)

Made could remember a happier time, before the Bali bombings, when her family never went hungry. But after the bombings in 2002, tourist numbers had plummeted. Suddenly there were fewer rich Westerners holidaying in expensive resorts. The price of basic goods rose, and employment fell. And like almost everyone else on the island, her family was affected.

Being of Sudra caste, they'd never been affluent. They worked hard, cultivating rice and soybeans on the small plot of land they leased from Ida Bagus, the head of the village. They ate what they grew and gave Ida Bagus his share. Her mother took great care of the money earned from the sweet cakes she sold outside the village temple, keeping the notes straight and smooth in a tattered leather pouch beneath her mattress.

That pouch was only ever produced in the most desperate circumstances. Like when her older brother Wayan had fallen ill with blood fever, before the second Bali bombings in 2005. In his typical entrepreneurial way, Wayan had been supplementing the family's income with a small tyre-repair service at the foot of the mountain. When he fell sick, lying motionless and glassy-eyed on his bed for three nights, her mother had walked half a day to fetch the doctor. Made's stomach had churned with anxiety as she watched her mother bow down and touch the doctor's feet with handfuls of her long black hair. Her silent plea:
save my son
. The doctor had stayed two days in their village, mixing up all manner of potions and poultices, leaving instructions with her mother on how to use them. Then he'd accepted all the notes from her mother's pouch, promising to return the following Tuesday. But Wayan had died before the week was out. And so her only brother had gone, along with her mother's savings.

Within two months of Wayan's death, they were eating only one meal a day. The whole of Bali was suffering, the second bombings having frightened the Westerners away again. Forever, some said. Her mother refused to beg and ran the household as though nothing was wrong. She dismissed Komang's complaints with a raised hand.

‘Komang, we are very fortunate,' her mother would say. ‘Your father works hard and so do I. Do not dishonour our efforts with your ungrateful words.' Then she would push most of her own meagre rice ration into Komang's bowl, reserving the rest for Made. When Made objected, she would raise her hand for silence again.

But Made would hear her mother at night, weeping quietly into the sarong she used as a pillow. As she listened to her mother's grief, she would imagine Wayan alive again. His cheeky smile, his husky voice accompanying a four-stringed guitar on moonlit evenings, his wily schemes to make money. At family gatherings, her father had always told the story of how Wayan, at seven, had picked wild lychees in the wet season and sold them at market. He'd hung a sign over his bicycle with the words
Magic Lychees—
Make You Strong
and spent several hours spruiking their qualities to the market throng. He'd returned that night with six thousand rupiah in his pocket, much to his parents' amazement. ‘There's no doubt about Wayan,' her father chuckled. ‘He could sell eggs to a chicken.'

All of that was gone now. Since the day Wayan died, her father hadn't spoken much. He spent much of his time smoking under the papaya tree. Made would see her mother watching him from across the yard, a worried look on her face.

Three months after Wayan's death, Made came to a decision. With her brother gone, she was the eldest. She was eighteen years old: it was
her
responsibility to help the family. She needed to find work, one way or another.

Early one morning, before the rooster crowed, she slid out of bed and began to get dressed.

Komang stirred at her side. ‘What are you doing?' she murmured.

‘Little sister,' Made whispered, kneeling next to her, ‘I am going to find work. Tell mother I will return soon with good news.'

‘But . . .' Komang began. Her small hand gripped Made's.

‘Shhh,' whispered Made. ‘It is my destiny to go. It is your destiny to stay.' She stroked Komang's hair and kissed her forehead. ‘Go back to sleep.'

She stole out into the cool dawn and took Wayan's bicycle, unridden since his death. With a knapsack of clothes strapped to her back, she set off for the coastal town of Sanur, where her cousin Ketut worked.

She hadn't been gone two hours when a nail punctured her rear tyre. Her legs were weary from the pedalling, and her arms ached from steering the heavy steel frame around potholes. When she saw the thin metallic spike protruding from the tyre, she almost cried.

What would Wayan do?

She picked her way along the road, wheeling the bicycle next to her.

‘Where are you going to, missy?'

Made stopped and turned, scanning a nearby rice paddy for the source of the voice.

‘I'm trying to get to Sanur,' she said.

‘Down here.' A woman's head popped out from a water channel running alongside the field. She was hauling a large wicker basket on her back, loaded with wood. She straightened up with some difficulty, then clambered out of the channel. Made guessed she had just been drinking the water, or defecating in it. Her dark skin and dress immediately announced her lower caste. But she didn't look Balinese, Made thought. More Javanese, like her own mother.

‘Good morning, Ibu,' said Made courteously.

‘Sanur's a long way to go by bicycle,' said the woman, looking Made up and down. ‘Especially for a scrawny girl like you.'

‘Do you know where I can fix my tyre, Ibu?' asked Made. ‘I've never visited this area before.'

‘There's a petrol seller straight ahead, on the right.'

‘Is it very far, Ibu?' Made glanced at the sun rising higher in the sky. Soon the heat would become uncomfortable.

‘Not far. You tell him that Ibu Lia sent you. He will help.'

Made thanked the woman and continued on to the petrol seller's. There she sat in the shade of a coconut palm while the tyre was patched by a boy of no more than eight years.

‘You have a strong son,' Made said, smiling at the petrol seller. ‘Just like my brother.'

‘Where did you say you were going?' asked the seller.

‘Sanur, sir, to find my cousin.'

‘Sanur? On a bicycle?' The seller threw back his head and laughed. ‘Did you hear that?' He gestured to his son, then turned back to her. ‘You
know
how far that is, don't you, buffalo brains?'

Made shook her head. She felt ridiculous. But if she didn't get to Sanur, what hope did her family have? Tears began to slide down her cheeks, dropping into the dust in front of her.

‘Now you've made her cry, Dad,' the boy said in an accusing tone. He wheeled Made's bicycle towards her.

The petrol seller stood up from behind the stall and squatted next to Made.

‘How old are you?' he asked, his tone kinder.

‘Eighteen.'

‘Then you're old enough to know that it's too far to cycle to Sanur. Do you know where you're going?'

Made shook her head. She knew nothing of distance or maps.

The man sighed. ‘My brother drives the bus to Denpasar,' he said. ‘He'll be coming through in an hour. Why don't you save your legs and catch the bus? Then you can cycle from Denpasar to Sanur. That's not so far.'

‘That is very kind,' said Made. ‘Ibu Lia said you would be kind to me. But . . .' She reddened. ‘I have no money for the fare, sir.'

The man looked at her. ‘Well, if Ibu Lia knows you, I'm sure my brother can give you a free ride.'

‘Oh, thank you, sir.' Made stooped forward into a bow, touching her hand to her heart.

The seller stood up. ‘Sanur's a big place, and shifty too,' he said. ‘Be careful down there.'

The bus traversed winding mountain roads and, eventually, the heavy traffic of Denpasar's outskirts. Made sat at the rear of the vehicle, next to an elderly woman with three chickens and a goat tethered to her seat. The frequent lurching of the bus and the panicked bleating of the goat made her feel queasy. On several occasions she thought she might be sick, but she pinched her nose to control the urge. The petrol seller had been right, she reflected. She never would have made it by bicycle.

When they arrived in the centre of Denpasar, the driver unloaded her bicycle from the luggage rack on the roof of the bus.

‘Thank you for your kindness, sir,' Made said.

‘Sanur's to the south, that way,' replied the driver, pointing to a highway.

Made had never seen so many vehicles. Trucks carrying all manner of cargo careered down the carriageway, weaving between motorcycles and four-wheel drives. Buses competed with minivans for space in the narrow shoulder, where she would be cycling. Quietly, she prayed for safe passage before mounting her bicycle.

It took her more than two hours to reach Sanur, stopping for directions along the way. When she finally arrived at Pantai Raya Resort on Duyung Road, the sun was setting. Breathless with fatigue, she stopped on the footpath and stood astride her bicycle, staring at the ocean. It was bigger than she'd imagined. The waves made a peculiar sucking sound, like the rush of strong wind through a forest. The air was sharp and cool, carrying pungent aromas she'd never smelled before. She was as far from her mountain home as she'd ever been.

She approached the resort's security post and smoothed her hair with one hand. Pantai Raya was one of the best-known resorts on the island, favoured by diplomats, corporate travellers and government officials. Only the wealthiest tourists could afford to stay there.

A middle-aged man in a brown uniform looked up from his newspaper. Six security screens blinked black and white behind him. Beyond the security post, dozens of cottages with thatched roofs dotted tropical gardens. Pebbled paths sloped down to a golden sweep of sand.

‘Yes?' the security guard asked, his tone uninterested.

‘Sir, my name is Made. I have come to visit my cousin Ketut. She works here.'

The security guard folded his newspaper. ‘We have eighty staff members. What is her job?'

‘She's a cleaner, sir. I'm hoping to find work here too.'

The security guard yawned. ‘You and half of Bali.'

‘Please, sir.'

The security guard cleared his throat, rolled a glob of phlegm around his mouth, then spat it out the side window of his booth.

‘I'll call housekeeping.' He picked up a telephone and dialled three digits. ‘Security,' he announced. ‘There's a girl here looking for a cleaner called Ketut. Her cousin, she says. Do you know her?'

Made waited.

‘What time tomorrow? Right, thanks.' The security guard replaced the handset. ‘It's your cousin's day off. She's on tomorrow morning at seven o'clock. Come back then.'

Made gripped the handlebars of her bicycle. ‘Sir, I left my village early this morning. I am happy to come back tomorrow, but I have nowhere to stay tonight.'

‘That's a shame.'

‘Please, sir, may I stay in Ketut's room?'

‘No.' The security guard was firm. ‘You
say
you're her cousin, but can you prove it? Besides, only staff and paying guests are permitted on site.'

Made stared at him, helpless. The sound of the ocean was frightening.

‘What will I do?' she asked, her voice shaking.

‘Come back tomorrow.'

It was cold, colder than a mountain evening, lying on the beach. She attempted to shelter from the wind by curling up against the exposed roots of an enormous banyan tree and resting her head on her knapsack. Her limbs throbbed from the day's exertions, but sleep evaded her. She was too alert to the foreign sounds around her, too frightened of being discovered, too ashamed of her predicament, too homesick. She missed her mother's familiar smell, the smoothness of her skin, the warmth of her embrace. She imagined lying next to Komang in the bed they'd always shared, their toes touching, giggling at each other's jokes. She drew the flap of her knapsack around her ears, attempting to muffle the high-pitched whine of mosquitoes encircling her. All night she drifted in and out of an uneasy sleep.

In the stillness before dawn, she was jolted awake by a snuffling sound. Her heart raced as she tried to make out the creature in the sand nearby. She sighed with relief; it was only a stray dog scrounging for scraps. Her body was stiff and her clothes damp. The beach was shrouded in mist, but she could detect a faint arc of light creeping across the eastern horizon. She slung her knapsack over her shoulder and began to walk across the sand, her limbs warming with the movement.

She gazed out at the endless green expanse beyond, heaving with hidden currents. The ocean was alive, she could feel it. Her uneven breaths were barely audible above its rhythmic surge; she felt insignificant in its presence. This sea had delivered sustenance to the people of Bali since the beginning of time. A light breeze tugged at her clothes, like the invisible spirits of ancestors calling her on.

The mist swirled and suddenly parted. In the semi-darkness, not two metres ahead of her, an elderly woman stood facing the sea. Her skin was dark and her frame skeletal. Her long hair, streaked with silver, cascaded down her back. Made gasped and immediately crouched down on the wet sand.

‘Dewi Sri,' she breathed.

The woman was a crone: she looked nothing like the goddess of rice venerated in the small shrine in her father's field. But the name had sprung instinctively to Made's lips. A tingling crept along her spine and down her arms.

The woman did not acknowledge Made's presence. Instead she stood, unmoving, her eyes fixed on the sea. Her clothes flapped in the breeze. A batik sarong was wrapped around her body, fixed in place by a bright yellow sash. A blue shawl of woven lace lay over her right shoulder. Her lips were moving, but Made couldn't make out the words. She stooped to place an offering on the sand. A lychee, rice, a sweet cake and several brightly coloured flowers were nestled within the basket. The woman staked the offering to the sand with a wand of burning incense, then turned towards Made and smiled. Her mouth was stained with the reddish-brown juice of betel leaf and several of her teeth were missing.